Purbright stopped him and indicated Palethorp, approaching with the cylindrical object. It was a huge old-fashioned hat box made of leather.
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Henry. He called: “In here—there’s a good chap.”
Again Purbright was ready to intercept. He told Palethorp to set the hat box down on the ground, then turned to Bird.
“I’d be obliged if you or Dr Cropper would open this, sir.”
“Now look here, Purbright, don’t you think you’re going a bit...”
“Of course,” Dr Cropper firmly and loudly declared, before Sir Henry could say any more. He stepped to the box and unfastened the strap that secured the lid.
“Odds and ends, you see, inspector. They’ve been kicking about in there for ages. We thought the Scouts might devise a use for them.”
One by one, Purbright removed and handed to Palethorp the objects in the box. The biggest was a megaphone about a foot long, with some kind of detachable reed or vibrator fitted into the mouthpiece. There were also two small flashlight batteries; a card that had held three crimson “Santa-lite” electric bulbs, of which two remained; a pair of pliers; and a partially emptied Family Size pack of “Safemate” condoms.
“And now, gentlemen, I must ask you to accompany me and the sergeant while we examine the room from which you have removed these things. The key, if one of you will be so kind...”
Sir Henry slowly withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket and dropped a key into Purbright’s open palm. He was past the point at which indignation could still be conveyed in words. He tried instead to look contemptuously unconcerned. But his face was grey, blotched irregularly with nets of tiny inflamed veins.
Dr Cropper’s manner, on the other hand, became increasingly cheerful, almost jocose. He bowed Purbright into the small, musty-smelling room with a remark about ‘desirable business premises’.
The room contained a card table, three heavily old-fashioned dining-room chairs, and a leather-covered couch. There was a cupboard in one corner. A telephone stood on a shelf near by. Half the floor area was covered with carpet too badly worn to give any hint of its original colour or pattern.
The two policemen opened the cupboard, and surveyed what little it contained. They saw a few cups and saucers, a kettle, jars of instant coffee and dried milk and sugar, two part bottles of whisky, another of sherry, nearly full.
“Drink, inspector?” inquired Dr Cropper.
Purbright turned. He was not smiling. Love closed the cupboard door. With a sad, hardly noticeable tilt of his head, Purbright ushered them all out of the room.
They walked back along the short passage into the hall and picked their way between a case of hymn-books and some stacked chairs towards the door that led into the courtyard. Just before they reached it, Purbright stopped and spoke.
“Henry Loxley Bird and Halcyon Arthur Marshall Cropper, I am now taking you into custody. You will be charged, severally and jointly, that you did, on or about May the first, this year, at Flaxborough, unlawfully abduct Edna Hillyard and continue unlawfully to restrain and imprison the said Edna Hillyard. I have to tell you that you, Henry Loxley Bird, and you, Halycon Arthur Marshall Cropper, need not say anything either now or when you are formally charged, but that what you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence. Does either of you wish to say anything at this stage?”
The ensuing silence was broken only by the click of Love’s priming his retractable ball-point.
“I am now,” went on Purbright quietly, “going to put another question to you, but this time without formality.”
He threw a side glance at Love, who pocketed his notebook.
“Which one of you actually did the killing of Bertram Persimmon?”
Chapter Sixteen
Two weeks later, there presented himself at Fen Street a gentleman wearing a black morning jacket, pin-striped trousers, highly polished black shoes over silk socks and the hardest-looking bowler hat that Flaxborough ever had seen. His furled umbrella was as slim as a wand, his briefcase supple and well-matured.
“Who’s the pox doctor’s clerk?” Love inquired of Constable Braine, who had just escorted the visitor to Purbright’s office.
“Solicitor from the D.P.P.” Brain’s tone was airy; he liked an opportunity of scattering initials about.
“Come to tie it all up, has he?” Harper asked.
“Suppose so.”
Love wandered off, but not out of the building. He hoped that he would be sent for, and perhaps consulted, by the man in that super Old Bailey get-up: the representative, no less, of the Director of Public Prosecutions.
After all, Love reflected, if it hadn’t been for his tapes, they’d probably be as far up the creek as ever in trying to decide between Bird and Cropper.
The summons came after only quarter of an hour.
Purbright introduced the man from the Director’s office as Mr Spratt-Cornforth.
Love’s hand was taken in a quick, cold grip and immediately released. Less brief was the stare of appraisal from grey eyes in a long, rather wooden face.
“We’ve heard about you, sergeant,” said the solicitor as he turned to resume his seat, “and that keen ear of yours. Splendid.”
Love blushed. He fingered his keen ear. Purbright motioned him to a chair.
Spratt-Cornforth picked up the topmost clip of typescript from the pile before him.
“The forensic stuff is pretty straightforward. We rather approve of the forensic stuff. Can you see them shaking us on that, Purbright?”
“I don’t think so, sir. The chain is clearly established. Hairs and varnish from the bull mask—found in car boot, hat box and altar mattress...”
“Strong belief in comfort in these parts,” interjected Spratt-Cornforth.
“It’s a fairly high-class neighbourhood, sir.”
“Ye-e-e-s...” (It sounded like “years”, long drawn out.) The solicitor was glancing rapidly through one of the statements. He slapped it down on the table.
“This Pentatuke woman,” he said. “She sounds to us a bit non compos. What do you think, inspector?”
“Odd, certainly. But only in this one particular.”
“The weird sister stuff.”
“Yes, sir. As with most of them, it’s a sort of hobby.”
“We are thinking of her in the box, Purbright. We are not altogether happy. The defence would make short work of a witness who persisted in calling the accused Master of Darkness.”
“I do see what you mean. Actually, I have concluded a bargain with Mrs Pentatuke, who is more shrewd than might appear from the preliminary statement. In return for our dropping the sacrilege charge and promising not to mention her sexual relationship with the defendant, she has undertaken to make a lucid deposition about that phone call of hers that brought Persimmon to the Sabbath. That, after all, is the nub of her evidence so far as you are concerned.”